Real Substitutes
On Vowing in Matot-Masei
If a householder makes a vow to the Lord or takes an oath imposing an obligation on himself, he shall not break his pledge; he must carry out all that has crossed his lips. (Numbers 30:6)
All substitutes for the language of vows are like vows, and intimations of vows are like vows. (Nedarim 2a)
Let us say that they disagree with regard to this following principle, that Rabbi Yoshiya holds that one should follow the language of the Torah, and our tanna holds that with regard to vows one should follow the language of people. No, it is possible that everyone agrees that with regard to vows one should follow the language of people. Rather, this Sage stated his opinion in accordance with the language of his locale, and this Sage stated his opinion in accordance with the language of his locale. In the locale of our tanna, roasted food is called roasted and cooked food is called cooked, and in the locale of Rabbi Yoshiya even roasted food is called cooked. (Nedarim 49a)
It would be a favor to us,” they continued, “if this land were given to your servants as a holding; do not move us across the Jordan.” (Numbers 32:5)
What is a vow? How does one vow? What makes a vow efficacious? The answer to these questions, it turns out, requires a philosophy of language. And thus the Talmudic tractate Nedarim provides the basis for a discussion about whether the meaning of words are determined by their semantic or their pragmatic meaning. Do we follow the Torah and restrict the meaning of a word to its Scriptural basis or do we follow local custom and say that, in certain contexts, “roasted” = “cooked.” If I swear that I won’t eat roasted food it matters a great deal. Nedarim begins with an enumeration of different words and phrases that constitute vows before offering a principle: anything that seems like a vow is a vow. We aren’t restrictive about vows; vows are part of a language game, not something you look up in a dictionary. On a formal level this makes sense: to vow is human. Vowing demonstrates human choice and agency, a way of constructing and fashioning the world.
Our parasha, Mattot-Masei, begins with the laws of vowing. Vowing is a form of mitzvah-creation. Before vowing I have no extra obligation. After vowing I have a general mitzvah to keep my vow and a specific mitzvah—unique to me—to keep the vow I have made. On the one hand, vowing expresses human dignity, being created in the divine image, because it is a form of creativity. If I vow not to eat three eggs over easy, only two or four are allowed, I have taken something arbitrary or seemingly random and turned it into something metaphysical and significant. If I started vowing about all kinds of things my world might shrink quickly. Vowing itself is not obligatory—we are merely permitted to vow. But once we vow, it becomes obligatory. God gives us permission to live in our own subjective worlds, but an obligation to be committed to the bit. If we’re going to start making stuff up we need to own it, not dilly-dally.
Despite the leeway, there are some things about which I cannot vow. I cannot vow that 1+1=3. I can only vow about things in my control. I cannot change reality, only my practical experience of and interaction with it.
The placement of vows at the end of Numbers foreshadows several important themes: 1) The notion of a religious life that is decided by humans from the bottom-up, rather than by God or prophets. 2) The notion of a religious life that is evolving and local—different people, in different contexts, take different vows 3) The rabbinic notion that process matters more than results. In the story of Oven of Akhnai, the rabbis excommunicate Rabbi Eliezer, even though a divine voice says the law follows his opinion. They make a vow and override God’s express opinion in favor of majority rule. God proclaims “My children have defeated me.” God grants us permission to defeat God, as it were; and once we defeat God, we have an obligation to follow the rabbis rather than appeal to the miraculous. Vowing is deeply connected to rabbinic Judaism. In a sense, rabbinic Judaism is one big vow, a vow to follow the discourse of the rabbis rather than search for the literal interpretation of Scripture. Literalism is for Karaites. In the new world, “Roasted = cooked.” The covenantal tradition described in Numbers sets us up to live in this world. Without this flexibility and adaptability we’d be gone.
The laws of vowing precede the scene in which the Reubenites and Gadites request to settle just outside the land of Israel. They are given permission to do so. God and Moses don’t recommend it, but they don’t stop it, either. As long as the Reubines and Gadites fight for the Promised Land, they are allowed to live in the un-promised land, in the mundane land, in the land where there is no requirement to remove idols. While the Torah frowns on idolatry, it largely prohibits it for Israelites. The only case where it is prohibited explicitly for Gentiles is in the land of Israel. Taking the point further and more provocatively, God, as it were, grants Gentiles permission to worship false Gods provided it is outside the land of Israel. It is their “vow.” In a sense they are obligated to their religion. Their false religion is true for them, just as roasted food = cooked food. The Holy Land is elevated in that it is permitted fewer illusions.
Freud writes, “Illusions commend themselves to us because they save us pain and allow us to enjoy pleasure instead. We must therefore accept it without complaint when they sometimes collide with a bit of reality against which they are dashed to pieces.” Freud’s core core point is that most of the time, our illusions stand, and are not dashed to pieces. Reuben and Gad can enjoy their illusion. The sages can follow the majority rather than the divine voice (bat kol). A person can use conventional language to vow rather than reciting a ceremonial script. We live in a vernacular world.
The Wilderness (Bamidbar), in the expansive sense, is not merely land between Egypt and Israel, but a part of reality that remains with us. It is the space where “things come up.” It is the zone of wandering. Each place we stay becomes elevated by our having stayed there. Think of Jewish history and all the places we’ve encamped. Jews have made their home not just in Kadesh and Zin, but Bagdad and Sura, Provence and Mainz, Los Angeles and New York. These places become not just religiously permitted but religiously salient. The local customs and local language we create along the way become the basis for our reality, our divinely commanded illusion.
How remarkably deflating that two of the tribes arrive in the Promised Land only to ask to leave—the land is better here. And yet how remarkably human. God gave us the Torah—why do we need to start vowing about this and that? Weren’t 613 laws enough? From first principles its a form of brazenness. But we do. We need, as it were, a 614th commandment that is just ours, whether a private miztvah or simply a local mitzvah. The vow reconciles human autonomy with divine fiat. The world of our own making becomes God’s. Illusion befits reality. Like Gad and Reuben who remain outside the Land, but proximate to it, we hope that if we cannot handle the objective truth, we can remain adjacent to it.
Shabbat Shalom,
Zohar Atkins